


The cupboard under the stairs

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Mild Smut, Poor Jack, There's snippets, Trapped In A Closet, this is not a case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-01 16:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14524938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: ‘He’d come by the typical overdose, but something had struck both him and Miss Fisher as odd about these separate cases; the short time span, the number of victims, the vastly different social circles these victims moved in. There was a pattern, and yet there wasn’t. They all had one thing in common though; they’d used cocaine, and they’d wound up dead.’Otherwise known as that one time I shoved the two of them inside of a cupboard and waited.Set right after Death and Hysteria (S03E05).





	1. Soar to great highs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you decide to write ‘the cupboard one’ and it turns into this thing with case snippets and a background. This idea has been hanging around for half a year and it took me ‘Major character death’ on another fic to get the inspiration I needed. Take from that what you will. This, however, is some light reading for you guys. 
> 
> I love Harry Potter and am terrible with titles.

_‘A man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not half as wise as the man with no secrets to keep.’_

_—_ E.W. Howe

 

 

Jack was anxious. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, but it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. He liked being on high-alert, kept on his toes. His hands clutched the steering wheel a tad tighter than was his custom, but who was to know? He might’ve even sped up a little in his budding enthusiasm, and figured Miss Fisher would be proud of him. He wasn’t sure if this was what he should be aiming for in life, but still...

He was excited.

Jack was a man who loved his job. It was a necessity to do so, because his job took up most of his time, both _on_ the job and occasionally at home. He enjoyed the rush, the thrill, the unexpectedness. He loved solving riddles, puzzles, putting together clues until the painting would come alive before his very eyes, the colours vibrant and exuberant, a true tableau vivant. Being able to tell relatives what had happened to their loved ones was a paradox. It pained him, sometimes, but the relief and gratefulness on the faces he encountered whenever he’d solved a case, or was able to return stolen goods to their rightful owner...

He liked doing what was right. It made all the horrendous parts that came with the job bearable. When justice was served, he considered it a job well done.

It was one of the reasons why he kept a quiet home. Although he didn’t spend much time there, it was his sanctuary, his shelter from the world. A place to contemplate, to brood, to relax. To tend to his garden, or to ride his bike around the neighbourhood.

And then there was Miss Fisher; the exact opposite of quiet. Jack remained undecided, as of yet, whether she was to be considered a perk of the job, or a pest. He supposed, by now, she was a bit of both. Maybe more of the former than of the latter.

They had just wrapped up the Betsy Cohen – case, when bodies had started – for all intents and purposes – dropping. Literally, causing their intended little tête-à-tête to be postponed to a more opportune moment.

The first victim had been found in one of the finer neighbourhoods around town, at the bottom of an (luxurious) apartment building. A grand party had been thrown in order to celebrate the refurbishment of the lobby (honestly, didn’t these people have anything better to do?) and according to witness testimony, at one point, the young man had disappeared from the festivities, only to turn up dead on the sidewalk.

The lad – barely eighteen – had been a brother of a friend of a cousin twice removed, or something along those lines (Jack had to admit he’d been ever so slightly distracted by her plunging neckline), so naturally she’d wanted an in on this case. It was a flimsy excuse – come to think of it, so was the scrap of material she’d referred to as a dress – but he’d allowed for her to join him all the same.

He’d never stop feigning annoyance at her presence, though. It fuelled her, and he loved her even more whenever she got feisty.

Jack had been close to dismissing the first case as, what the witnesses had referred to as a ‘bad trip’, when three more deaths had followed in quick succession, all over town. Bad trip had quickly turned into bad holidays, and the bodies were sent off to the morgue for further investigation and comparison.

Drug use wasn’t uncommon (Jack could well remember a certain ‘fudge’), and dealers were generally tricky customers, difficult to catch in the act as they would often simply dispose of the evidence if they weren’t caught red-handed. It was his job to serve the law, however, and to keep the city clean of such substances.

If people chose to use without him knowing or seeing, well, that was entirely up to them. However, when they wound up dead, it was up to _him_. He’d come by the typical overdose, but something had struck both him and Miss Fisher as odd about these separate cases; the short time span, the number of victims, the vastly different social circles these victims moved in. There was a pattern, and yet there wasn’t. They all had one thing in common though; they’d used cocaine, and they’d wound up dead.

According to Dr. Macmillan’s coroner’s rapports, the powdered cocaine was identical in all four cases, and appeared to have been tampered with, which was something Jack found to be somewhat ironic. However, as four users had wound up dead – with two more in hospital in critical conditions – he’d taken on the entire case.

 

***

 

If one, however, thought dealers were tough customers, one had never dealt with a supplier. These were the men with the money, the men with the power. These were the kinds of people who would take a life for the fun of it, if it meant getting their job done. Mr. Sutherland was one of these men.

Jack had been trying – for years now – to pin down the rather elusive Dereck Sutherland for a number of drug-related crimes, but each time he’d gotten close, the case had been dismissed due to lack of proper evidence. He was a bit of a toff – “new money”, Miss Fisher’d called him – and his arrogance had been slowly scratching away at Jack’s carefully maintained composure.

Unfortunately, the two hospitalized men were still out cold and of no use to them. This case had provided them with a new source, however. One of Sutherland’s presumed current dealers in hold – arrested on suspicion of providing the third victim with the botched-up cocaine – had decided to supply them with information in exchange for penalty reductions. And if Miss Fisher’s flattery and flirtations had had anything to do with the poor man deciding to turn coats, well, Jack’d had no objections to that.

There had been a barred gate separating them, anyway.

According to their source, Mr. Sutherland was to arrive home sometime this week, having gone away on ‘business’ for the past month. Naturally, Miss Fisher had been eager to catch the crook off-guard and ambush him at his home. Jack had gone with the more cautious stake-out, in order to observe Sutherland’s moves to decide on their next course of action, much to the chagrin of his petulant partner (“Jack, my grandmother would’ve leaped into action quicker than you, and she’s dead.”).

Fortunately, she’d seen reason and had gone along with his plan in the end, if only because she’d claimed this would give them a nice opportunity to catch up on his Chinese brothel escapades.

For the umpteenth time that night, he reconsidered whether this was a bad idea, when it had started out as such a sensible suggestion. What could possibly go wrong at a stake-out (he could think of a million and one things when seated next to Miss Fisher in his motorcar)? They’d decided to arrive separately at the designated rendezvous point, as per Miss Fisher’s request, as she’d been entertaining guests for dinner that night. They were old acquaintances of her Aunt Prudence, and Jack could very well see why she had been unable to turn down the request. Although short and stout, that woman was a force of nature in her own right.

He could see where Miss Fisher got her spunk from.

 

***

 

He was about to turn onto Primrose Avenue – where the manor house of their suspect was to be found towards the end of the street, near the outskirts of Melbourne – when he noticed a parked car on the side of the road. It was hard not to, as it was a red Hispano-Suiza.

Turning slightly, he managed to park his police vehicle behind hers. _Gods, it was a magnificent car, wasn’t it?_

Leaning in, squinting, he tried to make out her silhouette in the dark of night. He sighed. As far as he could tell, the car was unoccupied. It could be that she was simply laying low – or down, as the case may be – but he figured that was hardly her style. He _knew_ for a fact it wasn’t her style.

He grit his teeth. Could the daft woman not follow instructions for once in her life? He could not afford to mess up on this case. They were supposed to meet up, she’d get inside his car, and they’d drive up to the vicinity of the house together.

Easy.

Why did she always have to complicate matters?

He put the car in gear and drove off, strangely unsettled, and turned onto Primrose Avenue before coming to a quiet stop a few hundred yards away from the home of their suspect.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to sub-title this ‘Where all the magic happens’, but figured that would be taking it too far.


	2. A slight miscalculation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote dialogue, so there's that. This chapter was fuelled by sleep-depravity and liquorice.

Closing the car door with more force than he’d initially intended, he winced slightly as he straightened his fedora and pulled on his lapels.

He was anxious. Excited. He was decidedly not, in the least bit, nervous. Nor worried.

Oh, sod it.

Sutherland was not a man you wanted to trifle with, and if anything, Miss Fisher _loved_ to trifle. Whatever she was up to this time, Jack could only hope the owner of the house had not returned as of yet.

He walked up to the house and crossed the street with care, cautiously ensuring he was alone before taking a look at the premises through the iron gate. The house was a stately Victorian manor house, seemingly modelled after British manor houses he’d seen in photographs. It reminded him of Prudence Stanley’s residence, but this house was larger and erected out of red brick (and no doubt purchased by means which had been illegally obtained). It had a large bell-gable at the centre of the house, and lots of chimneys. Large windows could be seen from where he stood, with white window frames.

It had quite the extensive lawn with perfectly kempt grass and a lovely array of plants. Jack loved to garden – the feeling of one’s hands in the soil connected him to the earth, to the here and now, a nice reprieve from the hectic job – and he could always appreciate a proper example of fine gardening skills, even if said garden belonged to a criminal mastermind.

He entered the premises through a rusty side gate with trepidation – finding it already slightly unhinged, he frowned – carefully moving towards the side of the house whilst remaining close to the large hedges for cover. He could just imagine her, chuckling at his cautiousness.

Arriving at the side of the house, he crossed the lawn swiftly until he could move into the shadows of the large brick building. There was an old water pump, and a small green wooden door down a few steps, no doubt leading into the kitchen and the adjourning servant’s quarters. A narrow window next to the door told him the lights were off, and no activity could be seen.

It was still early August, and although winter was coming to an end, it was rather chilly at night. A sudden gust of wind alerted him to a peculiar sound. As he looked up, a little bit to his right, there was an open window. The sound that had alerted him appeared to have been one of the lighter lace curtains, fluttering on the breeze.

He pinched the top of his nose, trying to stop the sudden headache from turning into a full-fledged migraine.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , he could find a plausible explanation for all of this that would not involve his worst suspicions.

He rather doubted it.

He looked up at the open window, calculating the possibilities; either the housekeeper or the maid could’ve opened it slightly to air the place out, anticipating their employer’s upcoming arrival? No lights appeared to have been switched on at this time, and the house seemed quiet. The staff – if at all present – must’ve already gone to bed.

As he lowered his gaze, his keen eye caught what appeared to be a delicate shimmering, silver thread, stuck in the sturdy, massive ivy below the window.

He sighed, removing the piece of evidence and pocketing it.

He wondered why he even bothered to feel surprised anymore.

Checking his surroundings for any random passers-by (although the neighbourhood was very quiet at this time of night), he decided it was relatively safe. Grabbing hold of some of the firmer branches, he braced himself as he began his climb.

 

***

 

He arrived at the landing with a soft thud, near the staircase, gun drawn, just in case. The lush carpet underneath his feet had cushioned most of the sounds he’d made when climbing in, as he took in his surroundings. The hallway was extensive, with – to his rough estimation – about six bedrooms down the hall. Another staircase lead to the second floor, which he assumed was used for either storage or held more guest bedrooms.

Clearing the staircase, he walked along the hallway. The decorations here were sparse, but tasteful. A lot of dark wood, polished and gleaming, a few pieces of art, a side table with a grand emerald vase.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he tried to listen for any kind of movement that would let him know of Miss Fisher’s assumed whereabouts or – heaven forbid – Mr. Sutherland’s. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Sutherland, but he was a police officer and could hardly afford to be discovered, traipsing around a suspect’s home without a search warrant.

The things he’d risk (and had risked) for that woman.

Normally, he would be able to detect her presence a mile off. On the _one_ night she should have worn that damned alluring cloud of perfume...

_She really had him whipped like Pavlov’s dog, hadn’t she?_

Then again, maybe the absence of French perfume meant that she wasn’t here after all. He almost sighed in relief, until the unbidden image of her ‘wearing less next time’ crept into the corner of his mind.

_No! No. Focus._

Perhaps the maid _had_ been in, and—

A door opened downstairs, and cheerful voices could be heard, ricocheting off the entrance hall walls. He froze, quickly scanning the upstairs hallway for a possible escape. He was just about to head towards the open window when he realised he’d closed it upon his arrival, not wanting to arouse further, unnecessary suspicion, thinking he’d have time to open it once he’d dragged Miss Fisher out from wherever she was snooping.

Damn it.

He just about registered the sound of another door swiftly opening. Before he fully realised what was happening ( _some fine policing there, Robbo_ ), two surprisingly strong arms wrapped around him from behind. He barely managed to grab a hold of his hat as he was unceremoniously both pulled and shoved inside what he surmised had to be a cupboard under the stairs, complete darkness enveloping him as one hand clamped down on his mouth, effectively silencing his surprised cry.

The lock softly turned in place.

His instincts and police training were about to kick in when he recognised her scent. She wore no perfume, and so the pure essence of her wafted over him in waves. It was a heady feeling, to be sure. He’d know that scent anywhere. It haunted his dreams. Softness, just a hint of jasmine, a slight musky undertone, a lot of woman.

_Phryne_.

He relaxed his body and she released him, much to both his chagrin and relief, turning them so they were opposite one another. As he allowed for his eyes to adjust to the darkness – the only light creeping in coming from the tiny strip underneath the door, as somebody had apparently switched on one of the hallway lights downstairs – he could just make out her silhouette.

He blinked a couple of times, now able to make out more of his cramped surroundings. They were rather...confined quarters, from what he could tell. He could scarcely move a couple of inches without touching either the wall behind him, the shelves to his left, or, well, her. There were shelves directly opposite the door, filled with clean towels and other types of linen. The sides of what he now assumed was a cupboard were bare, save for the wood panelling he was leaning up against.

Upon closer inspection, she appeared to have worn her outfit for breaking and entering (and he really should _not_ have been privy to that type of information). All black crêpe-de-Chine pants (the ones that he knew, for a fact, hugged her bottom splendidly), a semi-transparent black blouse, marbled with the same silver thread he’d discovered down the ivy, dark camisole, and a black coat. The black beret was absent, but he figured she could have lost that in their little scuffle. Speaking of which...he’d dropped his gun, and she’d inadvertently kicked it to some indeterminate part of the dark cupboard in the midst of their struggle.  

Lovely.

Apart from his two fists, and her rather splendidly aimed kicks, they now had no other way to defend themselves, should they be discovered. He knew immediately their chances of coming out of this unscathed would be slim, as they were already cornered, so to speak.

But he would take down Sutherland or any of his errand-boys any day against spending time in such close quarters with Miss Fisher, with only his sharp wit and barbed comments to keep her at bay, which he knew would be a challenge in and of itself.

And when he looked down at her, catching her looking up at him in wonder, he realised personal space was about to become a rather relative concept.

 

***

 

“What are you doing here?!” he spat, clenching his fists in a desperate attempt not to raise his voice at her in these tight quarters.

_Gods, they were tight, weren’t they?_

“I think that would be obvious, Inspector; we did agree to meet here, didn’t we?” she countered in soft whispers, urging him to lower his tone of voice, already sounding tired of his antics.

“Yes, but _outside_ the premises, not _inside_ a bloody broom cupboard.”

“It’s a laundry cupboard, Jack, and _you_ broke into the house as well,” she quite rightfully accused him.

“Only because you always disobey—”

“What, _Detective_ _Inspector_? Orders? You?”

“It would make my job a lot easier, Miss Fisher, if you’d just—”

“Well, anyway, nobody appeared to be home,” she spoke in hushed tones, cutting him off mid-sentence and shrugging in that deliciously coquettish way he’d only ever seen her pull off.

“I regret to inform you this may no longer be the case, Miss Fisher,” he hissed angrily at her, in danger of rapidly losing his temper. Really, she _was_ insufferable, wasn’t she?

He was hopelessly in love with an impossible woman.

“A slight miscalculation on my part, I’ll admit.”

“ _Slight_?” He hated the way his voice pitched.

“Oh, come on, Jack! Don’t you find this to be even the least bit exciting?”

“You and I have vastly different opinions on the concept of ‘exciting’, and not for the first—”

He was interrupted by the sound of voices – a man and a woman – coming up the stairs. They appeared to be missing quite a few steps, stumbling and laughing and sounding quite inebriated, and Jack could only imagine what was going on out there. Judging from the ‘cat who got the proverbial cream’-smirk on Miss Fisher’s face, so could she.

He sagged slightly against the shelves, rubbing a hand over his already tired face.

 

God help him.


	3. A man and a woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been struggling with this fic, and writing in general. I like it still, but I get insecure about pretty much everything I write these days. However, I DO like the dialogue in this chapter. Almost. Maybe. And uneasy Jack is my favourite. He's quite delicious when embarrassed.

 

A few minutes had gone by – by his rough estimation – but it felt as though he’d been trapped in here for hours.

The couple ascending the stairs were apparently taking the scenic route, much to Miss Fisher’s glee and his own acute mortification.

However, he could deal with the people moaning halfway down the stairs; he’d been undercover before, and although it wasn’t something he enjoyed – uncomfortable things tended to occur from time to time – he usually just waited it out. People went to sleep eventually, didn’t they?

Being trapped, nigh on pressed up against the woman he desired was a far more intricate, complicated case and he saw no way of solving it without embarrassing himself. He’d been going over the Sutherland case details during the past few minutes; names, birth dates, locations. Anything to distract himself from the heat of her body, her close proximity, her scent.

And did she _have_ to breathe so loudly?

“I can hear you thinking, Jack.” A soft whisper, not unkind, as she brushed some imaginary lint off his shoulder. Then again, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d actually brought in half the ivy.  

“Why were you in here, Miss Fisher?” he asked her exhaustedly, doffing his hat and placing it on the nearest shelf to the side, running a hand through his pomaded curls. It was warm in here. Her eyes followed his movements like a hawk.

“I was merely investigating, Inspector. Securing the premises, and the like.” Her voice, even in hushed tones, went up ever so slightly as she did that thing with her eyes; rolling them whilst simultaneously averting them. She was lying, obviously.

He scoffed, clenching his jaw. She reached out to brush back an errant curl, briefly stroking the short hairs at his nape. He was too shocked to respond to that.

“Well, I _was_ ,” she insisted, and he decided not to press the matter at the moment, “but then I heard someone entering through the window and I hid in here.”

“And you decided to drag me in here to keep you company as you executed this ridiculous plan of yours?”

“Merely for your own safekeeping.” For all definitions of ‘safe’.

 

***

 

Mr. Sutherland and his conquest for the evening arrived at the landing at this point in time; murmured voices and sloppy kissing could be heard. Jack cringed, Miss Fisher frowned – a moue of distaste gracing her features.

He looked down at her, confused.

“Terrible technique,” she mouthed at him. He had the audacity to look both affronted and disgraced at the same time.

The couple stumbled past the cupboard and Jack released a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Miss Fisher simply made a face at him, then continued to listen on with rapt attention. They both grimaced as the couple appeared to bump into a door frame, fumbling with the handle.

Jack’s eyebrows almost rose into his hairline as the explicit sound of tearing of cloth could be heard upon the couple’s entrance into the bedroom. Miss Fisher merely inclined her head ever so slightly, then clucked her tongue at what he presumed she considered the waste, the expense.

For a split-second he wondered if she would object to a lover ripping open her blouse in order to squeeze her supple breast though the silky camisole, to lower his mouth to trace the tempting skin of her collarbone, to bite down on—

_When had he become the lover in this scenario?_

“I hardly think this is appropriate, Miss Fisher. In fact, we should –”

“Oh, shush.”

“You can’t seriously be wanting to listen to _that_.”

Her pointed look, when she turned towards him, told him she was doing _exactly_ that, with very few scruples to boot.

“It’s just a man and a woman, Inspector. Doing the things a man and a woman might be wont to do, if the mood is _just_ right. Besides, it could be useful evidence,” she whispered, looking up at him from underneath those gorgeous lashes and even in the dark he could make out her mischievous expression, laced with something darker he firmly decided he wasn’t going to look into at this time.

He was also steadfastly ignoring her probing finger tracing patterns on his waistcoat.

“I know that,” he grumbled defensively, stepping back as far as he could, which admittedly wasn’t very far at all. He wasn’t some clumsy boy. He’d seen things, done things. It was just that he wasn’t entirely comfortable listening in on other people’s _things_.

“Do you now?” she asked, stepping closer until they were far too close for his comfort, at least. To her credit; the size of the cupboard allowed for hardly any space between them as it was. She was stroking the lapels on his coat, parting those sinful lips as if in silent invitation, tilting her head _just so_.

Before he even had any time to consider her unspoken offer, a loud shriek pierced his foggy haze and his moral compass.

Dear _God_ , what was this man doing to that woman?

She must have noticed his confused expression – she sure as hell was close enough – interlaced with some horror at the sounds the woman was producing.

“He must have a talented mouth after all, Inspector,” she all but purred at him, still holding onto his lapels to keep him close, her eyes turned upward to listen to the source of the noise, “ _Very_ talented, indeed.”

“Miss. Fisher,” he hissed, appalled and almost forgetting where they were, and that they were supposed to be keeping quiet (not that they were very likely to be overhead with the screaming banshee down the hall, but still). She was quick to hush him by means of her index finger, pressed to his mouth, and her move left but a breath of space between the fronts of their bodies.

Not that there had been much...wiggle-room to begin with.

_Was it his imagination, or was her breathing rather...shallow?_

All of his focus narrowed down to the point of contact between them, her finger scorching his mouth as some of his blood was rerouted decidedly further south. For a split-second there, he loosened his lips as well as his inhibitions and was about to pull her finger into the hot cavern of his mouth to show her all he knew about talented orifices, but he caught himself. Barely.

“Oh, don’t go all ‘blushing virgin Mary’ on me now, Jack. Some women prefer something other than… manual stimulation,” she breathed, eyeing him curiously. She lowered her gaze, transfixed by the sight of her finger touching him, softly applying a bit more pressure with her finger before removing the offending digit altogether, catching on his lower-lip and pulling it back.

Something about the impossibly seductive lilt (really, how did she accomplish that when whispering?) at the end of her sentence told him she’d just neatly included herself as one of those women.

He’d heard of such activities, of course. He’d even read up on them more than once, late at night. He’d longed to reignite the dwindling passions between him and Rosie and had wondered if maybe this could provide a certain stimulation, a much needed inspiration, in a final attempt to bring them closer together.

It turned out it hadn’t. Rosie had been appalled by his suggestion (“Would you still expect me to kiss you with that mouth?!”) and he’d been forced to sleep in the spare bedroom for yet another three weeks, after which she’d informed him she was moving in with her sister.

He’d been devastated.

Jack could certainly think of a few ways to put Miss Fisher’s perfect mouth to proper use right about now, although he’d never dare voice those suggestions out loud. It was bad enough to even entertain such debauched thoughts, but to voice them…

He was fairly certain she _wouldn’t_ be appalled by his sexual curiosities, his more adventurous desires. Quite the contrary, in fact, and therein lay the problem.

“You might be surprised to find that does not only apply to women, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled, regretting the words the instant they left his traitorous mouth. He could feel, rather than see her still against him.

_Too far, too far!_

Her eyes locked with his before he could even blink, hooded and clear in their intent. She pulled on the lapels of his jacket this time, tugging him closer so their chests were almost touching. He gulped.

“Oh, believe me Jack, I _know_ ,” she smouldered, and he could swear the extended ‘O’ on her red-waxed lips was entirely deliberate, “but I can’t help but wonder; don’t you have some wonderful first- _hand_ experiences you’d like to share?” she asked him, meanwhile tracing one delicate fingernail along the palm of his hand before moving upwards and underneath his cuff to stroke his wrist.

The woman was the devil.

“A true gentleman does not kiss and tell, Miss Fisher,” he replied hoarsely, pulling back his hand.

“I never said anything about kissing, now did I?” she purred, and her pointed look at his parted lips told him that no, she may not have been referring to kissing, but she was definitely thinking about it.

What was worse; now he was, as well. He was rapidly burning up.

He frowned, aiming for what he hoped was an admonishing look. He managed about half of that.

“Oh, but that reminds me! You never did tell all about the Chinese brothel,” she encouraged him in those impossibly seductive hushed tones.

“I hardly think now would be—”

“Oh, posh. There’s no time like the present. Besides, we could be in here _all night_.”

 

As if he needed to be reminded of that fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm killing this man. Metaphorically speaking, this time.


	4. Talents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sets off right where we left off: with the two of them, locked in a cupboard and Jack contemplating the confined quarters of his pants.

 

Mr. Sutherland and his lady-friend had, from the sound of it, finally managed to actually make it to the bed, preceded by certain lewd acts that had earned an appraising – and dare he say appreciative – eyebrow from his closet-companion, at which point he’d started considering if plugging his ears with towels would be a viable solution to his mortification. 

He would attempt to drive away the sounds from his mind later on, with whiskey. If he really set his mind to it, maybe he could drown them out altogether.

“Come now, Inspector, you promised me,” she pouted.

“That doesn’t sound like me, Miss Fisher,” he teased. She actually did roll her eyes at him this time, although he could detect the beginnings of a smirk, tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“You do realize...,” she began, and in that instance he regretted ever teasing her, recognizing that tone of voice for what is was; a means to seduce, to persuade. “I will get it out of you,” she whispered, raising her eyes to meet his, her pupils slightly dilated as she started toying with the top button of his waistcoat, “Under duress, if necessary,” she added, her hand now stroking down his waistcoat and coming precariously close to uncharted territories.

“I’ve never doubted your... _persuasive_ ways for one second, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled, plucking her hand from his person before it could stray any further and cause him to embarrass himself. He was doing his damnedest to keep himself in check, but very much doubted the solidity of his final restraint. He didn’t think he could find it within himself to hold back a certain...uprising, if she were to touch him once more.

The truth of the matter was; the Chinese brothel had – as he’d mentioned to her at the morgue – made a lasting impression. He just wasn’t sure if it had been for all the right reasons.

The girls who had been working there had not appeared at all happy with their conditions, their jobs, their lives in general (although one did manage to hit him in the head when she’d flung a device at him). The place had been rather filthy and he would not have been surprised if diseases had been running rampant.

It had all been quite awful, really, and it had caused for guilt to settle in his gut. It still gnawed at him, at times, considering that one time he’d—

His expression grew grave, solemn, and she softly stroked his furrowing brow, causing him to snap out of his reverie. The familiarity of her touch tugged at his heartstrings. He doubted she was even aware of the liberties she was inadvertently taking with his person, with his heart.

“Jack?”

“There was this other instance...It was during the war. I’m not proud of it, but—” he trailed off, lowering his eyes in shame, hoping she’d understand, that she’d catch on. She’d been there, seen the horrors. He wasn’t worthy of her pity, her understanding, but surely, if anyone, she’d—

“You were lonely, Jack. These things happen. I’m sure Rosie would have understood. Eventually,” she added as an afterthought. She gently lifted his chin and palmed his cheek. He had to stop himself from leaning into it, carefully grasping her hand and removing it from his face, clasping it between his own momentarily, squeezing softly before letting go.

“It wasn’t just that. The lads, they’d— well, and I...I’m not proud of that man, Phryne,” he whispered softly, a slight cough escaping him in an attempt to cover up the awkwardness he felt.

At this point, Jack was fairly certain he was lighting up the cupboard with his blushing, burning face.

He had no idea why he was telling her any of this, but she was looking at him like _that_ and he found he couldn’t resist. As though she’d always understand, and if she didn’t, she would at least attempt to understand him, or stand by him regardless (or smack him until he’d see reason).

It was a look he’d searched for in Rosie’s eyes, and had never uncovered. It’d been one of the reasons he’d never told her about his one night of debauchery during the war.

“We all make mistakes, Jack. They make us human. You hardly need apologize for seeking some kind of relief in that hell,” she soothed him.

He was about to counteract her ergotism, when a loud groan could be heard, coming from the bedroom.

Jack winced; he _knew_ that sound.

 

***

 

“Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“The woman, was she kind to you?”

He could hardly comprehend why this would be of importance to her, but her question touched him all the same.

“She certainly was...talented,” he admitted grudgingly.

“I bet she was,” she smirked, although he detected a mild trace of concern.

She carefully looped her arms around his neck – giving him the time to back away, metaphorically speaking, he realised – drawing herself up to full height.

“Phryne.” A warning. She dropped her arms, but her hands came to rest upon his shoulders.

“Now, tell me Jack...”

Her deft fingers were – from what he’d first surmised – straightening his tie, as she was wont to do. Too late he felt the silk slipping from its knot, the top-button coming undone as she stroked the small strip of skin that normally remained buttoned-up.

“Miss Fisher?” He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, catching her eye the way it had done, all those months ago at her cousin’s engagement party. Looking down at her – her face open and desire written all over it – he knew she was right there with him.

She’d wanted to do this to him then.

He wanted her to do this to him now.

“Did any of the women... _service_ you with their ‘talents’, _Inspector_?” she asked him in that hushed tone of voice that he knew was entirely deliberate this time, a rather successful attempt at making him go weak at the knees, as her hands boldly slipped underneath his waistcoat to stroke the fevered skin of his chest through his shirt.

He hissed, nodding stiffly; he could not trust his voice to speak right about now. His arms hung limply from his shoulders, entirely inadequate, his hands unsure of their next move.

She brought her face close to his, then moved to nudge her nose against his jaw. She breathed deeply.

Was she... _smelling_ him? Oh God, when was the last time he’d showered?

“Did you _like_ it, Jack?” she purred against his ear, and the vibrations of her voice nearly made him tremble. The clipped way with which she pronounced the ‘k’ at the end of his name could very well become his undoing. Her nails – meanwhile – were doing something wonderful to his abdomen.

“I did,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and barely recognizable to his own ears. His cock hardened rapidly.

Jack enjoyed many things in life. Sunshine, a good meal, a wonderful whiskey, the smell of freshly mowed grass, a solved case. But he could hardly think of anything more heavenly than being sheathed inside of a woman’s hot orifice, be it her mouth or her cunt. At times, the sudden feeling of warmth and wetness and woman had overwhelmed him thusly, that he’d been unable to do anything other than come immediately like a callow youth.

He’d never asked that of Rosie, knowing she would be repulsed by the idea of taking him into her mouth, but when the opportunity had come up – so to speak – during the war, it had taken embarrassingly little for him to concede.

The couple down the hall were apparently getting down to the main act and grand finale, as the frequency of the noises as well as the volume started to increase, the bed creaking.

“You do know you only need ask, Jack,” she confessed, and he almost missed it, distracted by the sounds coming from down the hall and her hands now hovering over his waistband, tracing it and teasing the strip of skin through his shirt. There was no possible way she could have missed the bulge at the front of his trousers.

“Ask me, Jack.” It wasn’t a question. She was pressed up against him entirely now, chest to hip, and he could feel her soft breasts even through the material of his waistcoat and shirt, feel her hot breath on his throat, her heat close to his pulsating cock. She actually squirmed against him, and he forgot how to breathe.

He couldn’t find the words, tongue-tied, language all of a sudden a difficult concept to wrap both his tongue and his mind around. But his body was silently begging her to do something, _anything_ , to alleviate the unbearable pressure, the ever-increasing tension that had been building between them for all of these months.

“I want—oh _fuck_ ,” he gasped, as all coherent thought fled from his mind when she bit his earlobe. She was simultaneously cupping him through his woollen trousers, and the feeling was exquisite. It was the first time he was experiencing another person’s touch in over two years, and his only worry was the plausible fact that he wouldn’t last.

The fact that he hadn’t pried her inquisitive hand off of his person the very minute she’d reached out to touch him so intimately was a solid testimony of his own depravity.

She squeezed, and he involuntarily bucked against her clever hand, closing his eyes, embarrassed at his own wanton display of desire. His bitten-off groan only seemed to spur her on as she traced his length through his trousers before coming up to stroke his cockhead, pressing down into his slit with her thumb.

He moaned, deep and low, forgetting their current predicament, the case, his own name.

“Ssshhh, Jack...That’s it. You feel so good,” she cooed quietly in his ear.

He groaned unintelligibly. His hands attempted to find purchase, scratching the wooden panelling behind him in an attempt to steady himself.

“I wonder if you’ll feel just as wonderful when I take you inside of my mouth.”

“ _Jesus,_ Phryne. You – we can’t, I’d –oh _fucking_ Christ!” he exclaimed on a hiss, and she admonished him by giving him a firm tug (which almost finished him then and there), her hand now directly on his hard cock. She’d sneaked her hand down his waistband and inside his smalls and this knowledge – among other things – made him feel light-headed. She was tracing him, teasing him, stroking him to full hardness, breathing his name against his throat and licking the damp skin she found there, usually hidden from her prying eyes.   

_When had she even unbuttoned him?!_

Her strokes sped up and Jack was fairly certain he was in both heaven and hell at the same time. Soon, however, her hand wasn’t enough. He was only but one question away from bliss, a man hanging by a thread.

He dared open his eyes and caught her lustful gaze, pupils dilated with desire. She was enjoying this as much as he was, possibly even more so. Suddenly, he wanted to know if this made her wet, if she would be sinfully dripping between those porcelain thighs.

He could see her bending her knees and he opened his mouth, ready to ask her to–

The couple reached their crescendo at this exact moment, and Phryne released him suddenly as the loud grunts and moans pierced the air, alerting her. She turned around – causing her glorious arse to be positioned precariously close to his groin and dear _God_ , she was giving him _ideas_ – and placed her hands flat on the door, listening intently, as though that spectacular hand hadn’t been down his pants mere seconds ago.

Stroking his cock.

Some small part of his brain actually mustered up some admiration for her _professional_ diligence, as he himself had momentarily forgotten they were in a laundry cupboard in the home of a suspect, with said suspect only a couple of yards away.  

Everything had gone awfully quiet outside, and he surmised the couple must’ve drifted off to sleep.

Considering the fact that he would not have been able to keep quiet if she had decided to continue, it was only just as well that she’d stopped when she had. And yet, he (obviously) felt no relief in any way, shape or form.

He quickly buttoned up his trousers, trying to ignore his ever-growing discomfort. He was a grown man. He could do this. He was about to draw his coat around his waist to save himself the humiliation, when she tsked softly.

“Such a pity, really. You were showing so much _promise_ , Inspector,” she purred, decisively pulling his coat away from his body to assess the situation at hand.

“You’re quite...talented, I must admit, Miss Fisher,” he breathed, and her smile turned positively feral at his comment.

“You’re quite _gifted_ yourself, Jack, ”she smouldered, softly stroking him one last time, teasing.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to try harder in the near future, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled, pulling her close by her waist, daringly tracing the shell of her ear with his tongue whilst carefully keeping his pelvis from aligning with hers.

_Gods, her scent was the purest aphrodisiac._

“Well, you _do_ still owe me that story about the Chinese brothel,” she breathed, arching her back to give him better access to her neck as her sneaky hand crept towards his groin.

Just then, a loud snore could be heard, coming from the bedroom. They both looked up, suddenly made aware once more of their surroundings.

She snorted rather inelegantly, and he found it adorable.

“Perhaps some other time, in a more...intimate setting?” he repeated his earlier words to her.

“Even more intimate? Why, _that_ had better be a promise, Inspector.” With that, she put herself to rights, then softly turned the key in the lock and quietly opened the door, her black bob peeking out, before declaring the coast was clear.

 

***

 

As for the case, well...

Jack had stood guard, observing the naked couple as they’d snored peacefully, while Phryne had quickly and efficiently rummaged through Sutherland’s belongings. Her victorious smile upon discovering not only traces of cocaine around the nostrils of the enamoured pair, but also a small bag of the stuff in one of Sutherland’s trouser pockets had very nearly made him want to sweep her off her feet and kiss her senseless.

Although he’d successfully convinced Phryne to leave the evidence where it was – the policeman in him wanted to catch Sutherland, but through the proper methods and channels – he did manage to obtain a search warrant from the Commissioner for the home of Mr. Sutherland on accounts of suspicion of possession, based upon both witness statements from people who’d attended a party that fateful night with Mr. Sutherland and previously gathered case evidence.

Mr. Dereck Sutherland had been arrested in the early morning of the next day, after the suspected cocaine had miraculously been discovered by Jack and his men. It turned out the cocaine in possession of Sutherland had not been tampered with, and although Jack did not care for the man one bit, he supposed it was a lucky thing. At least for now a rather large link in the chain was off the streets, undergoing some of the toughest police interrogations Jack had ever been privy to witnessing.

The poor sods that had been using the tampered supply presumably hadn’t been targeted, specifically, if Mr. Sutherland’s claims and confessions were anything to go by. They had just been that unlucky. Jack assumed Sutherland must’ve made some sketchy deal with one of his suppliers – he wouldn’t put extortion past him, and the men providing Sutherland with the cocaine were often poor, living in horrendous circumstances and needed all the money they could get. If they’d put something in one of the batches out of spite, well, that would be a tough case to crack.

So far, Sutherland’s arrest on account of the possession of illegal substances wasn’t the big scoop Jack had hoped for, but with Mr. Sutherland locked up for the foreseeable future, it would give them both time and opportunity to uncover and follow the trail of breadcrumbs all the way up to the tampered cocaine.

 

***

 

Right now, however, Phryne had an even bigger mystery to solve; one concerning Jack and a Chinese brothel.

_A knock._

That policeman’s knock she’d know anywhere, for all the right reasons.

She smiled, before getting up from the chaise longue.

Passing the cupboard down the hall on her way, she paused, suddenly inspired.

 

Her modest smile turned positively devious as she went to answer the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, it's done. I can go back into hiding now.
> 
> Although, this does have follow-up potential...however, Jack may not live to tell the tale. Again, metaphorically speaking. I killed him off once. That's enough (for now).


End file.
